


Service Leadership

by Bright_Elen



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Accidental Stimulation, Co-workers, Hand Jobs, M/M, Pre-Canon, Semi-Public Sex, Sexual Confusion, Showers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-27
Updated: 2015-12-28
Packaged: 2018-05-09 19:38:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5552675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bright_Elen/pseuds/Bright_Elen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>FN-2187 is an excellent Stormtrooper: top of his class, superb marksman, a strong leader.<br/>FN-2187 is a terrible Stormtrooper: he sees someone succumbing to their own weakness and he has to help.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Slip starts it. Of course he does.

Phasma ran them through four sims one after another, something like ten hours all together, and the entire unit is wrecked, fragged down to their bones. It’s hardly normal, but they’ve all heard whispers of worse ordeals--six in a row, ten, as many missions as it took to break the troopers in the way the Captain wanted them broken.

FN-2187 was pretty sure he knew what the objective was this time.

_They take the entrance to the base smoothly, no casualties. FN-2187 is on point, leading his troops through the sparsely-patrolled corridors. It’s making him nervous, because none of them are at peak performance after twelve hours of missions, and it shouldn’t be this easy. _

_He secures an entrance to the command center. It was guarded, but there’s no one inside. There is only enough time to swear before the hiss of gas begins and vents acrid green plumes into the room. FN-2187 holds his breath before the gas reaches him, signalling his troops to do the same and retreat. _

_His head is swimming by the time everyone is out of the room, but he doesn’t dare breathe yet. Not until they reach open air. He urges his unit forward ahead of him, jogging forward to take point again, passing Slip at the rear. The ‘weakest link’ is slumping in weariness, along with half the unit, but still marching on, still holding his weapon at the correct angle. FN-2187 feels a swell of pride and smiles. Not even the Captain can keep him from smiling. _

_Then blast doors start closing in the corridor. The troops break into a run, dodging the doors and escaping._

_Except Slip. He stumbles, and there is a moment when FN-2187 could go back for him, could grab his hand and haul him through the closing door. _

_He doesn’t. Phasma has been programming such rescue opportunities into each of their sims so far, and it’s when FN-2187 makes the choice to help Slip that the whole thing ends and another ordeal begins. _

_It’s only a sim, and he knows they will all be free to rest afterwards, including Slip - but neither fact helps the sick feeling in FN-2187’s chest. _

_He watches the door close on Slip, trapping him in the room with the gas, and then the he finishes the mission. The sim ends, Phasma congratulates them on a job well done, and they are dismissed._

Removing his armor and underlayer, he shakes himself, tries to focus on the methodical task, on returning each piece to its place in his locker, on the sensations of the cold deck plating under his bare feet. The showers are hot, and since it’s a sim day they will be allowed five more minutes than usual. He’s been thinking about that since the end of sim number two.

The water flows over his skin, forcing some of the tension from his body, washing away the sweat and stink of the hours and hours. He stands there in the stream of it, breathing deep of the steam, letting everything else fall away. Another trooper starts using the showerhead to his left, and then a third man takes the one to his right, the corner shower. FN-2187 ignores them both.

This lasts for a few minutes. Then FN-2187 hears a choked, broken breath to his left. Another moment, and he registers a small, wet sound of skin sliding over skin, followed by what is almost a whine.

FN-2187 opens his eyes, glances to the left. It’s Slip. Slip frowning with eyes shut tight and his  hand working his cock.

FN-2187 wrenches his eyes back forward, staring at the water sliding down the metal wall. It’s not uncommon for the men to relieve themselves in such a manner - it was even encouraged, since fraternization was only barely tolerated, and only then if it didn’t interfere with any aspect of a trooper’s duty. FN-2187 has done it himself often enough. So he does what he usually does and tries to ignore it. He closes his eyes and turns his face into the water, soaps his skin and hair a second time, tries to listen to the sounds coming from other parts of the bathroom.

Slip grunts. FN-2187 relaxes, glad it’s over. He risks a glance.

The other trooper is grimacing, still what must be painfully hard, fingers pulling roughly at his flushed erection. FN-2187 looks away again, the familiar, illicit need to help mixing strangely with the beginnings of arousal.

He can’t close his eyes this time, only stare straight ahead. He’s hearing every noise Slip makes, each tiny grunt and whine and hitch of breath. He should walk away, but each time he takes a step back, he winds up stepping forward again.

What can only be a muffled sob of frustration lodges in Slip’s throat. It breaks whatever resolve FN-2187 had left.

“Do you need help with that?” he blurts, quietly.

Slip’s eyes fly open. He is shocked, afraid, and wanting, and FN-2187 sees his eyes widen with terrified ecstasy and relief as he comes.

Slip turns away immediately, as does FN-2187.

“Never mind,” he mutters. Mortification at his willingness floods his gut, and he wrenches the water off.

Five minutes later, the exhaustion and his own sheer stubbornness pull him down into sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

Later - he isn’t sure how much, maybe a week, maybe a month - it escalates. 

One of the things FN-2187 does with his free time is go to the range alone for live ammo practice. He isn’t quite sure why he always makes sure to schedule his time for when the others in his unit aren’t using it. It’s more peaceful that way, for some reason. Not for modesty, that’s for sure. Each shot hits the target. Nearly all of them are dead center.

It’s only twenty minutes before lights out when he walks back to the barracks alone with his helmet under his arm, eyes straight ahead, a model Stormtrooper. A completely normal evening right up until it isn’t.

Slip, wearing only his undersuit, materializes out of a maintenance alcove and drags FN-2187 into the spaces behind the plumbing. FN-2187 doesn’t think to resist until they’re hidden away. 

“What the hell are you doing, Slip?” FN-2187 hisses. He should be going back to the corridor, to the barracks, fighting Slip if necessary, and report him to the Captain. There is so much wrong with what’s happening, but FN-2187 doesn’t move. In the back of his mind, a quiet, clear voice points out that it would take more than this for him to report Slip. 

“Lately, it’s just,” Slip starts. Stops. Stares at FN-2187 with pleading eyes. Swallows. For some reason, FN-2187 finds himself watching the movement in Slip’s throat. The tremble of his lips. “Please. I need.” Slip shakes his head, looks down in shame. Looks back up at FN-2187, suddenly with a reckless wildness in his eyes FN-2187 can’t name, and drags his suit’s zipper down his chest, down his stomach, down all the way until he is split open, a long V of pale skin dragging FN-2187’s eyes to brown curls of hair and a rapidly swelling, pink dick. 

FN-2187 inhales sharply, darts looks everywhere but at Slip, terrified and confused and feeling his own body respond filthily. Still, even then, even with every reason to walk away, he doesn’t. 

He stays. 

He feels Slip’s hand on his own, and he looks back to the other trooper.

“Eight-Seven,” Slip whispers, voice harsh. “Please.” He’s pulling FN-2187’s hand towards himself.  FN-2187 is stronger than Slip, but he doesn’t pull back, and it is a shock that sends heat all through his body when his fingers touch the feverish, silky skin of Slip’s cock. Slip gasps and whines, closing his hand around FN-2187’s, nodding as his eyes half-close and he shows FN-2187 the rhythm he craves. 

FN-2187 finds himself standing against Slip, one hand braced on the wall next to the other trooper’s head, breath coming harshly as he watches Slip’s face and feels Slip’s cock throb and harden under his fingers. Slip’s hand moves up to FN-2187’s bicep. FN-2187 wishes that he wasn’t wearing his own armor, that he could feel Slip’s fingers digging into his muscle. The thought shocks him, makes his hand tighten, and then Slip is shuddering with a bitten-back moan, exposing his throat, and pumping semen onto FN-2187’s armor.

FN-2187 slows, stops, removes his hand. Takes a moment to try to slow his own breathing, which is considerably faster than he’d noticed. Wipes the translucent mess from his hip and thigh plates, immeasurably glad that the residue is invisible. Watches Slip’s breathing gentle. He has a powerful urge to press his mouth to Slip’s sweat-streaked skin, and that scares him more than anything that just happened.

He’s back in the corridor before Slip opens his eyes again, marching a bit stiffly to his barracks. He’s going to need his own time in the showers to take care of his body’s response to what just happened.

He has no idea what to do about his other responses.


End file.
